Booth Sixteen
by Speakfire
Summary: It was the night from Hell, I was working extra hours on a shift that wasn't even mine, and now someone's claimed Booth Sixteen. What else can go wrong tonight?


A/N Believe it or not, I actually have quite a few stories that I've never gone through the effort of posting to FF, for one reason or another. This is one of them. I went and saw the movie _Jack Reacher_ on December 21. I think I wrote this December 23 and it's been sitting in my document file ever since. I had initially planned on adding a bit more to it and then was like, no, it really doesn't fit in with the character so I decided to go ahead and post it. BTW the movie is very good and is almost exactly like the book. It's a really good mystery, but the opening sequence is kind of disturbing. I know many Jack Reacher purists complain that Tom Cruise makes a terrible Jack Reacher, but IMHO Lee Child went totally overboard with his description of the character in his books to the point that he's almost a cliche. Seriously, 6'5" 240 lbs and built like a brick wall? Oh but yet people always totally underestimate him, even when they know he is decorated ex-military? I think it's far more believable to underestimate an average looking dude of average height and weight and then have him open a can of whoop ass on you. I don't know many people who go deliberately picking fights with linebackers, is all I'm saying. This has not been beta-ed, I apologize for any typos. I recognize this is not one of my better or most original stories but hopefully you find it entertaining none the less.

I don't own Jack Reacher, and I'm not making any money from this story. It's purely for entertainment. This scene has heavy spoilers from a particular scene in the movie, done from someone else's POV.

* * *

I wasn't supposed to have been here this long. "Four hours, tops, from 7 to 11," is what Melanie had told me the night before when I'd been persuaded (read conned) into taking the shift. After being on my feet for nine hours straight on a Friday night, waiting tables, serving drinks, enduring a record number of drunk jerks grabbing my ass in passing and putting up with Melanie's nonstop pleas through it all, I had finally agreed to take the damn hours just to shut the blonde girl up.

It was just a moment of weakness, I thought to myself when I finally hauled herself out of bed around noon Saturday. How bad could it possibly be?

Bad didn't even come close to describing the night so far. If I hadn't been making a killing in tips, I would have walked out promptly at eleven pm. Six hours and four ibuprofen after clocking in, the shift manager Joe told me that Melanie would be there in a few minutes. The timing couldn't have been better. I'd just finished giving change and credit card receipts to the customers in all four of the booths I was waiting, and when it was this crowded, people had a tendency to hang around for a little while to chat while finishing their drinks.

I gave my booths the onceover and could not believe my bad luck. At some point in the last five minutes, the party of four at booth sixteen had left, and had already been claimed by another customer. "Shit!"

Joe brushed by me on his way to the bar and I caught his elbow. "Melanie here yet?"

"Nope, she's on her way though," he told me. "Why?" I didn't say anything, just gestured at the booth with my chin, and he followed my gaze. "Oh. It's just not your night, is it?"

"You can say that again," I growled, and stalked past him. It took sheer strength of will to arrange my features into an amiable expression while I approached the man in the booth. So far, he was by himself and if the gods had a single spark of mercy, he'd remain that way until Melanie finally showed. _Please, please don't let him be a groper,_ I silently prayed, _because if he grabs my ass when I'm walking away, I swear I'm going to stab him in the eye with my pen._

Sweeping the plastic tray with the credit card receipt from the previous customers off the table and cramming it into my apron pocket, I said, "Hi, I'm Lisa and I'll be your server today. Can I get you something to drink?" At least my voice almost sounded normal.

He didn't say anything at first and then looked up at me, quirking one eyebrow. "Rough night?"

"You have no idea." The words flew out of my mouth before I could stop them, and I had the grace to flush with embarrassment. Clearly I had not done as good a job of hiding my agitation as I thought and from his response, he'd picked up on it. Fortunately he seemed to be more amused by my reaction than anything else but I apologized anyway, "I'm so sorry, it's just been one of those nights, you know? When nothing seems to go right? Ever had one of those?"

His lips twitched with humor and he said ruefully, "More times than I care to remember." He was quite good looking, with one of those faces that made his age hard to guess. Maybe ten years older than me, green eyes, dark hair.

I grinned at that and it was probably the first genuine smile I had shown since starting my shift. "So then, what can I get for you?"

"Coffee."

I didn't even try to hide my surprise. "Coffee," I echoed. "Just…coffee?" The only people who ordered coffee at Marty's Pub were trying to sober up before they attempted the drive home, and this guy didn't look or smell like he'd been drinking.

"Yes. You do serve coffee, right?" he asked, but again I could see that hint of amusement in his hazel green eyes.

"We serve something that goes by that name," I allowed, tilting my head. "I can't vouch for its quality or taste, though."

He flashed a quick grin. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained."

"Then, coffee it is," I smiled again and left him to head to the kitchens. He did not grab my ass, but I was pretty sure he looked. I decided I didn't mind.

The coffee pot on the burner had been sitting there long enough that it had a shiny film on the surface. After a moment's consideration, I left it where it where it was and began to brew a fresh pot, holding a mug under the coffee as it trickled down until it was filled, and then maneuvering the orange decaf decanter under the stream to catch the remainder.

The other booths still hadn't changed their occupants and so I carried the coffee out to my newest customer. He was just setting aside the small battered flipbook that served as the pub's drink menu when I walked up and set the mug down on the table.

He picked up the cup, pursed his lips to blow across the surface of the hot liquid, and took a brief sip, then a longer one, savoring the strong, sharp flavor. This was a clearly a man who loved his coffee.

"Anything on the menu catch your eye?"

"Burger plate," he said without lowering the mug. "Medium rare."

"Burger and fries, medium rare. Anything else?"

"More coffee," he said, giving me a crooked smile over the rim of his coffee cup.

"Coming right up."

Melanie was tying her apron around her waist when I made it back to the kitchen, offering up her usual lame excuses for being late. I tuned her out until she asked, "So which tables do I have tonight?"

I put in the food order with Scott, our short order cook, and glanced at my watch. It was already after one am, and the next bus would not pick up outside the club until two. Sighing, I answered. "Three, four, and eleven are all yours. I guess I'll finish out sixteen—but other than that I'm done for the night, dammit." I glared at her.

The blonde nodded but didn't ask any questions. While I didn't make a habit of it, it wasn't unheard of for me to keep serving customers that had come in before my shift ended.

Picking up the decaf decanter, I carried it out to sixteen, being careful to avoid touching anyone with the hot sides of the pot. "Your food will be out soon," I told him and lifted the pot to refill his cup, but he moved the mug out of reach, staring at the orange-rimmed pot with something like dismay. It took me a moment to figure out the reason for his change in demeanor. "Oh! Don't worry, it's not decaf ." His gaze shifted up to me, brows still drawn together in a frown, and I reassured him, "Seriously, it's good ol' normal coffee. We don't even keep decaf here at Micky's, I mean what would be the point? Who drinks decaf coffee to sober up? I brewed up a fresh pot for you, and used this," and here, I gave the plastic orange decanter a little shake, "so I'd know the fresh coffee from the old coffee."

He breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief and moved the mug within range. "I wondered if you were trying to poison me."

A short giggle escaped me and I topped off his coffee. "While it has been the night from Hell, I save all the poison for the obnoxious customers, and since you haven't been one of those…"

"So far," he amended, that little smile touching his lips again.

"So far. I've got my eye on you though," I said, struggling to keep my expression serious enough to give him a mock warning glare before I walked off.

I set the decanter back down on the burner and had just turned away when Melanie appeared. "I see why you didn't want to give up sixteen—what a hottie!" She peeked through the portal window on the door to the lounge. "Has he given you his number yet? And if he hasn't, will you give him mine?"

I could only shake my head with exasperation. I spent the rest of the shift behind the bar, where it provided a good vantage point for me to keep my eyes on my lone customer at sixteen. Figuring I'd been pushing the envelope on flirting with him, something I generally tried to avoid, I tried to stick to smiling, pouring coffee and serving his food.

He didn't seem inclined to chat much more anyway, so it was just as well. Most of the time, he appeared to be lost in thought, or just partaking in the time honored bar tradition of people watching. When I brought him the change from his check and finished clearing off the table (save the coffee mug, of course), his eyes lingered on me the way they had for most of the night, with quiet appreciation as though he were content to just enjoy the view. Truthfully, it was a nice change from the outright lust some patrons showed. I was glad that I had decided to hang around, because it was turning out to be a nice way to wind down the shift.

After dropping his empty plate and fork into the sink, I grabbed the coffee pitcher and back out to the lounge, likely to refill it for the last time that evening. The sight of a woman sitting in the booth with him drew me up short. Not once that evening had he indicated he was waiting for someone to join him. A groan escaped me when I saw who was sitting across from him.

Sandy was a regular at the pub, unfortunately. She hung out with her on again, off again, boyfriend Jeb and his friends and all of them were bad news. Rumor had it Jeb and his buddies were dealing meth, but so far, no one had caught him selling at the club. It wasn't unlike Sandy to come on to guys in the club, but I had seen Jeb in the club, and usually she was on her best behavior when it came to other guys when he was around.

I edged closer to the booth with the decanter, not really eavesdropping per se as hoping for a pause in the talk between the two that would let me pour more coffee without interrupting.

Sandy was asking him a question, "So what's your name?"

He glanced around the sports bar before answering. "Jimmie Reese." He didn't really seem happy that she'd joined him, to be honest.

"Really?" Sandy seemed almost surprised. "You don't look like a Jimmie."

I rolled my eyes at her words. Seriously? What the hell was a Jimmie supposed to look like?

Jimmie and I were of a like mind, because he asked, "What do I look like?"

Sandy was still looking a little disconcerted. "I don't know, but not a Jimmie." She recovered, and asked, "Are you new in town?"

"Usually," was his taciturn response. He lifted his coffee mug to his lips and took a drink without looking at her. The guy was practically flashing a 'not interested' sign and I couldn't believe she wasn't taking the hint. Sandy could be nice when she wanted to, but she was also about as thick as two short planks. This was further proved by her next words.

"It's kind of loud in here. Do you maybe want to go place more quiet? I've got a car."

His mug was still at his lips, and he asked her over the rim, "You're old enough to drive?"

Giving him a broad smile, Sandy reassured him, "I'm old enough to do a lot of things." Wow, what a slutty thing to say.

Jimmie earned my respect though, some guys would have taken her up on that offer, but instead, he said, "I'm on a budget."

"What?" she said in disbelief.

Realizing she wasn't taking his hint, he said bluntly, "I can't afford you."

Sandy straightened in the booth, offended. "I'm not a hooker."

"Well, then I *really* can't afford you," he returned, and I snickered. I'd never seen Sandy get cut down like this before and I was really glad I had hung around the club late to catch the show. This was definitely turning out to be a night to remember.

"I'm not a hooker," she said again, louder.

"Look, Sandy, what I mean is, the cheapest kind of woman tends to be the one you can afford."

The red-haired girl stood up. "I am NOT a hooker!" she shouted.

"A hooker would have gotten the joke," he said with dark humor.

Suddenly my view of the booth was partially blocked. "What's this," a tall guy asked. Shit, it was Sandy's boyfriend Jeb.

She gave him a petulant look, "He called me a whore." Which was totally not true, because he never came out and said it just like that, though he could have, since it more or less pegged Sandy to a T.

"That true?" Jeb asked, and like magic, suddenly three or four more guys all crowded around the booth. I stiffened when I realized who they were—Jeb's creepy friends. It wasn't uncommon for the lot of them to pick a fight at the bar, usually over Sandy, but this time the whole thing seemed contrived and over the top, even for them.

I edged even closer to the booth, trying to see what was going on, and debated defusing the impending fight by 'accidently' spilling some coffee on someone. Sometimes if their target, in this case Jimmie, apologized or backed down, they'd throw out some insults, do some posturing, and that'd be it.

Jimmie was the only guy I'd ever seen them target who was not intimidated by them at all. He seemed completely unconcerned by their crowding around his booth. "Well, I hinted at whore, she inferred hooker, but what I really meant was slut." Holy crap, there went any chance of defusing the situation, spilled coffee or no.

"Hey, that's our sister!" the lanky blonde guy named Darren said, which was complete lie, unless Jeb, Darren and the rest of the 'brothers' were part of one of the most incestuous families in all of Pittsburgh, because I'd seen Sandy making out with every single one of them at one time or another.

"Is she a good kisser?" Jimmie asked with such genuine curiosity that even Darren was taken aback.

My jaw had dropped by this time—I could not believe the guy was goading Jeb and his boys to this extent, and in my experience, that meant one of two things. Either Jimmie was bat-shit crazy, or Jimmie didn't see the five guys doing their best to intimidate him as a threat, which technically made him bat-shit crazy. It was five guys against one, for Pete's sake!

Jeb had had enough of the insults by now. "Hey, outside," he growled. At least he hadn't started throwing the punches already, but Joe, the manager, had made it pretty clear that the next fight they started in their club would be their last time allowed on the premises.

Jimmie glanced up at him and then his gaze flickered around the club before landing on me. "Pay your check first."

Smirking, Jeb said, "I'll pay later."

"You won't be able to," Jimmie said and the way he said it, with such grim certainty, made me wonder if maybe Jeb and his crew had bitten off more than they could chew. No one I'd ever heard of talked like this unless they had the chops to back it up physically.

Jeb could only look at the guy in disbelief, which I couldn't blame him for, because I was doing the same. "You think?"

"All the time. You should try it."

The big jerk glared down at my customer, "Great joke, but I can either beat your ass in here, or outside."

Jimmie looked at the guys, and then around the club before his gaze landed on me again. "Outside," he said, resigned, and started to get to his feet.

"Stay here, Sandy," Jeb ordered.

Sandy was all smiles, the bitch. "I don't mind the sight of blood."

Picking his jacket up, Jimmie gave her a sidelong glance. "Well, it means you're not pregnant at least."

I covered my mouth to stifle a strangled laugh, the coffee pot still hanging loose in my hand.

Jeb was as confident as ever, but when he saw me standing there, he paused to draw out a thick wad of bills and handed me three twenties. "Give those to Beth and tell her I'll be back for the change in a few minutes." Then, he looked back at Jimmie. "There—you happy?"

Jimmie said nothing.

Snorting with derision, Jeb shook his head and pushed his way to the side door, with Darren, Sandy and the other three guys keeping an eye on their victim to make sure he didn't rabbit. When Jimmie passed me, I asked in a low voice, "Are you going to be all right? I can call the cops…"

"I'll be fine," he answered, with just the slightest emphasis on his words, as though it wasn't him I needed to be worried about. "Thanks for the coffee," he gave me a brief smile.

"Hey, stop wasting time, asswipe," Eric, the big dark-haired guy behind him said, and shoved his shoulder.

Jimmie's jaw clenched with irritation, but again, he said nothing, just headed toward the exit.

I stared after him and then rushed over to the bar to put the orange pitcher down before going outside as well. Jeb and Darren were already waiting in the street. Jimmie followed at a slower pace, pausing to set his leather jacket down on top of a newspaper box, before stepping off the curb, flanked by Eric and the other two, including Sandy. I found myself standing on the edge of the street, worriedly chewing on my thumbnail.

Sandy was still feeling the sting of his insults from earlier, and sneered, "Still think you're funny now, creep?"

Jeb hated when he wasn't the center of attention, and wasn't going to let the red-headed girl upstage him. "Shut your mouth, Sandy. No one's talking to you!"

Jimmie glanced at her and then at me before turning toward Jeb. "This is your last chance to walk away." He seemed relaxed and totally unafraid of these guys, guys I'd personally seen beat some poor slob so bad he was in the hospital for three weeks.

"Are you kidding? It's five against one." Jeb was staring at him with equal disbelief.

Shaking his head, Jimmie said, "It's three against one."

I blinked, because I definitely counted five.

Jeb saw the same thing I did, because he asked with mild confusion, "How do you figure?"

"Once I take out the leader—which is you—I'll have to contend with one or two enthusiastic wingmen. The last two guys, they always run." Jimmie spoke with such confidence that even Jeb seemed taken aback.

"What, you, uh, you've done this before?"

He didn't answer, just gave a slight shrug of his shoulders and barest nod of his head to acknowledge the question, and then sighed. "It's getting late." He was still relaxed, his feet half spread, hands open at his side.

Jeb set his jaw, lifting his fists to start the attack, and paused when his perceived victim said, "Remember, you wanted this." Then the young thug threw his punch.

Jimmie dodged the heavy blow with surprising speed, dropping and twisting, elbowing him in the face hard enough to knock the younger man to his knees. Then he helped Jeb to his feet, which made it easier for him dropkick the thug's groin so hard it literally lifted him a foot off the ground.

I bet five seconds hadn't even passed, and Jeb was already down, writhing on the ground in agony. "Ok. Now we know who's who," Jimmie said conversationally. The remaining four guys looked at each other and then went after him.

I used to have a boyfriend, Zach, who watched Mixed Martial Arts matches on TV all the time. I wasn't particularly fond of it, but there some things I couldn't help but notice that even in these matches, there were certain rules the fighters kept to, and in the few fights I'd witnessed at the club, the guys involved seemed to follow the same unwritten guidelines, especially when it came to the family jewels.

Jimmie Reese didn't fight by the rules, he fought to win using quick efficient movements that expended no more energy than absolutely necessary. He used their numbers against them, using Eric's forward momentum to throw him into Darren. He went after elbows and knees with quick, brutally hard blows that caused his opponents to crumple to the ground. In the end, he was right. The last two guys ran. So did Sandy.

I could hardly believe the fight was over, it had all happened so fast. Jimmie was standing in the street without a mark on him, watching two police cars roar up and screech to a stop before the cops threw open the doors, their weapons drawn and aimed at the lone man still able to stand like he'd been the one to start all the trouble, instead of the one who ended it.

"Get on the ground!" one of the cops yelled.

Jimmie shook his head with disbelief at their untimely arrival. "That's some impressive response time, officers."

And seriously, it was. The Pittsburgh cops never came to bar fights unless it was an all out brawl, and this had been tame, comparatively speaking. No knives, guns, or broken beer bottles had been involved. I wondered who had even called the cops to begin with.

Raising his arms to show he had no weapons, Jimmie got down on the ground, and I heard him ask Jeb, "Who hired you?" Like he suspected the whole thing, Sandy's come-ons and her 'brothers' coming to the rescue to defend her honor and the fight in the street had been a set-up from the beginning.

Jeb could not answer, not when he was still suffering from the sensation of having his balls kicked hard enough that they were probably still rattling around in his intestines.

Two of the cops checked on Jeb and his downed friends before deciding to call in an ambulance to be on the safe side, since two of them were completely incapable of even talking, much less walking. The other two cuffed Jimmie, rattling off his Miranda rights, but when they asked him if he understood his rights, he didn't say anything.

Hauling him to his feet, they swung around to face me as they did. We looked at each other and he gave me a rueful shrug. It occurred to me that he might think I was the one had called the cops, but I hadn't. I looked around at the smattering of bystanders who had witnessed the fight, but no one stuck out as the culprit. Then I happened to see Jimmie's leather jacket slung over the newspaper box.

"Hey," I called to the cops and held the jacket. "This jacket is his."

The two cops flanking Jimmie looked at each other, and then one beckoned me closer. "Did you see what happened?"

I generally did my best to stay out of stuff like this, but in for a penny, in for a pound. "He didn't do anything wrong. He was eating in the club and they picked a fight with him. It was self defense, it was like, five against one."

Jimmie regarded me with an expression of amused resignation on his face, but said nothing.

The two cops looked at the three guys on the ground, and one said, "Looks like it was three against one to me."

I followed their gaze and then looked at Jimmie. He tilted his head slightly and there was something in his eyes, almost warning me against saying anything more, or getting any more involved. I worried my bottom lip with my teeth for a moment and blurted, "I didn't call the cops."

His lips twitched into a smile. "I know." It was the only thing he'd said since the cops had cuffed him.

I started to give him the jacket, but his hands were cuffed behind his back so there was no way he could take it.

"I'll take that," the policeman said and took the coat before shaking it and checking the pockets. He didn't find anything, not even lint. "Come on, it's time for you to go on a little ride downtown." The cop grabbed Jimmie's arm, hauling him around and being none too gentle about it as he was pushed toward the squad car.

"I think that's all we need from you ma'am," the other officer said.

I stared at him in disbelief. The guy hadn't taken notes, or even asked for my name. "Don't you want me to give an official statement?"

He gave me an assessing look. "Do you work at this bar?" he asked, gesturing at Marty's.

"Yes, I wait tables."

"Well then Sweetie, if we need you, we know exactly where to find you. Now move along."

I ground my teeth with frustration, but wasn't really surprised. Lazy fucking cops. I wondered if I'd ever see him again. Probably not, knowing my luck.


End file.
